Her face drawn, beside herself with worry about Edouard and his parents, her sense of self-dignity and worth shattered by the humiliation of her jail cell, Malle Jaakson was lost for the first time in her life. For the past fifty-odd years she had been a model citizen of the republic of Estonia. To her, people who ended up behind bars were the ne’er-do-wells of society. Even political prisoners, automatically assumed by the West to be innocent of all wrongdoing against society, had been regarded by her as fundamentally troublemakers, the kind who would not be happy in any system. And now, here she was inside the damp, cold cell — the smell of it the odor of ageless despair. No matter how you were when they brought you here, the degradation of that moment would never leave. Forever after, a part of you would feel dirty.
It was not the charge of murder that overwhelmed her; of this she knew she was guilty — she had seen no other way— and would pay the ultimate price. What had struck her with the most force was the indifference of her jailers. She had feared they would beat her, and they had not. At first she thought this was because she had no information to give, that they assumed she knew no saboteurs in Tallinn — which was true — but it quickly became evident to her that she did not matter to them because she was a mere thing, one of the countless thousands of Balts they had processed through these cells over the years. They had photographed her, given her a number, checked her file for previous crimes against the state — there were none; indeed, she had an honorable discharge from the Baltic Fleet’s signal school — then locked her up and left her to herself. She had found this bad enough, but what was worse was the mundane but dreadful formality of having to surrender her stockings, her bra, the belt of her coat, the laces from her low-heeled shoes, and her glasses. Having not said a word so far, she now asked them why this petty humiliation was necessary.
“To stop you,” answered one of the guards, his voice one of tired boredom, “from trying to kill yourself.”
Do you care? she had wanted to ask, but the cell gave her the answer. It was merely a rule they were enforcing, like that of having to use the bucket in one corner of the cell. To move it was punishable by solitary confinement. They issued her prison garb: a coarse black-and-gray-striped woolen dress, supposed to fit all sizes and which, without a belt, made everyone look pregnant. How, she wondered, did the men’s prison “pajamas” stay up? surely they were not fitted with a belt. She remembered seeing trials on TV of those charged with crimes against the state, the prisoners required to stand before the prosecutor, allowed only one hand with which to clutch the waist. Sometimes one of the more frail prisoners, who could not keep his balance, would falter, and the pajamas would drop — the packed courtroom erupting in laughter — the three judges warning the gallery they would not tolerate such outbursts.
After she had been so suddenly taken from the world above to the world of the cells, the effect of her first few hours, an old man, a “psychiatric criminal” in the next cell, telling her what he would do with her, was devastating. She was terrified, not of what she had done but of how quickly her self-confidence had been shattered by the most banal loss of dignity.
Malle had always believed she was made of sterner stuff, but now, with the suddenness of revelation, she understood how so many confessions had been obtained by the secret police. Most of the public, she thought, felt as she did: that apart from admissions of guilt extracted under duress, most other confessions, especially those given in the first twelve hours, when the ink was barely dry on the charge sheet, were true. Now she understood how, in those first hours, the psychological collapse could be total. You were ready to confess to anything — just to get your shoelaces back.
During the night she had been unable to sleep, the terror of her impending death mounting in her, the madman in the cell quiet. Asleep or dead, she did not know. She called to him and there was no answer. She listened vainly for the sound of breathing, but there was none, or if there was, it was muffled by the hollow clanking of the pipes. In that moment the certainty of the firing squad made her so weak that she longed only for its finality — the end of her suffering— and, sobbing, she clung to the bars.
“You!” She thought it was a new guard she hadn’t seen before, but without her glasses, she was unsure. She could hear the crunching of boots on the cobbled courtyard above her and the click of the rifles’ bolts.
“Come on!” the guard hurried her. Instinctively she looked about for her glasses, then remembered they had been taken. Walking in front of him, she heard the crash of the volley, the clicking of rifles, and the crunch of the boots again. Barely able to stand, clinging to the banister as she was ordered to the second floor, her mind numb with fear and unable to see the edge of the steps clearly because of her shortsightedness, she was nevertheless vaguely aware of the guard changing his deportment, and brushing what appeared to be dandruff off the shoulder boards of his baggy uniform.
Inside the room, she squinted in the brightness of the northern sun that was streaming in, its beams of light giving the room’s sparse but elegant furniture a surreal look. But there was nothing surreal or imaginary about the Russian officer, his back to her — an admiral, from his splendid uniform. He turned as the guard slid the chair behind her, told her to sit down, clicked his heels, and left the room, the echoes of his footsteps hollow and hard. She sat down.
“Why?” asked the admiral, looking out the window, standing behind his wide, baize-covered desk, a ray of sunlight slicing the air between them, dust particles dancing crazily within. “Why did you kill the corporal?”
“He did unspeakable things to me.”
“He raped you?”
“Yes.”
“How many times did this occur?”
“Does it matter?” She marveled at her defiant tone.
“Why did you not come to the authorities?”
“He was the authorities,” she said. It was as if her inner voice, against all odds, demanded to be heard. “He came to my city. Like you all come and do what you want.”
“You knew no saboteurs? He was investigating—”
“None.”
“Your son, daughter-in-law. Were they saboteurs?”
She wanted to say no, but instead she said, “Perhaps. I don’t know. They went to work one morning and never came back. Shot along with all your other hostages, I expect.”
It was several seconds before the admiral spoke again. “You have a grandson?”
She said nothing — sensing danger.
“He was caught last night,” said the admiral. “Trying to storm the jail. It was very silly.”
She started forward in her seat. “What have you—”
“We have taken him to school, where he belongs.” He turned and glanced down at a file. “Mustamäe complex. Is this where you live?”
She nodded, afraid to say another word.
The admiral sat down, took out a pen, signed a paper, and tapped the small bell by the blotter. The admiral’s aide entered, the admiral handing him the file. “Return the prisoner’s personal effects.”
“Yes, Admiral.” The aide, a major, his features indistinct until he came closer, smiled down at Malle. “Follow me, please.”
As he led her down the curving stone stairwell, he glanced back at Malle. “You’re a lucky woman.”
She dared not think of it. She dared hardly breathe, but her heart was beating so hard at the prospect of freedom, she thought it would burst through her chest.
At the front desk, the major handed her a pen. “Go on,” he said. “Don’t be afraid. It’s a release form. Confirming that you have received all your personal effects.”
The clerk pushed a Hessian bag with a cardboard label, her name scribbled on it, across the counter. Inside were her “travel in Tallinn only” permit card, shoelaces, clothes, and glasses. She looked up at the aide, still not daring to hope.
“You’re free,” he said. “The admiral believed you. You may change in the washroom over there.”
When Malle came out, he escorted her to the door and called for a driver. “You are also to take this,” he said, handing her a square package the size of a small cake box. “These papers,” he added, giving her two buff-colored forms, “are your interim permits until new identity cards are issued. It is a new regulation.”
He opened the door to the car, wished her good day, then returned up the stone stairs.
In the back of the drab olive army sedan, as the driver waited to pull out into the traffic, she put the package by her side and carefully folded the papers the aide had given her. Suddenly she was staring down at the release order — signed by Admiral Brodsky of the Baltic Fleet. As the car pulled away, she looked up at the window, but the reflection of the sun was such that she could not see if he was there or not. The driver cursed, beeped his horn, and assumed, because a car had been ordered for her, that she must be some kind of VIP, though she certainly didn’t dress like it.
“Bad news, eh?” he said.
“What — pardon?” It was as if she were in a dream.
“They say the Americans are crossing the Weser.”
She didn’t know where the Weser was exactly, only that it was somewhere in Germany. Western Germany, she thought. “Yes,” she agreed. “Bad news.”
She had wanted to open the package immediately in the car but had restrained herself until she returned to the apartment. The can inside the cardboard box still had the blue and white duty stamp on it to show it hadn’t been opened. For several minutes she merely lingered over it, then very slowly opened it, inhaling the deep, rich smell of the finely ground chocolate-flavored coffee. Detaching the plastic lid from the bottom of the can, she placed it on the top tightly so that none would be spilled. Clutching it, she took it to her bedroom and, collapsing on the bed, held it to her breast, sobbing uncontrollably.
In San Diego, following the networks’ six-o’clock news, a story broke on San Diego affiliate KVTV that California congressman Hailey had been found dead in his La Jolla home. The TV story showed distraught staffers from the congressman’s San Diego office saying that the cause of death was not known “at this time.” Rumors that the congressman had taken his own life were vigorously denied pending an SDPD investigation.
The following morning, Mr. Jay La Roche of La Roche Pharmaceuticals, whom a reporter described as “a close friend and supporter of Congressman Hailey,” was “shocked and saddened” by the tragic news, commenting that “California has lost one of her most able and compassionate representatives.”
Within a few days La Roche Pharmaceuticals announced that two scholarship funds, in the name of Congressman Hailey, would be set up, one for a male student, one for a female, at the University of California — Stanford campus.
The army driver in Tallinn had been correct. The Americans had crossed the Weser east of Stadthagen as part of the general counterattack all along the NATO line. Whether NATO’s troops could sustain the advance was a matter of widely differing conjecture in the world capitals, but for now, Freeman, almost completely recovered from the painful paresis that had followed his back injury, undeniably had the bit in his mouth, and everywhere the Russians were in retreat.
At a crucial crossing over the Mittelell Canal at Peine, thirty miles east of Hannover, Major Norton of General Freeman’s G-2 was in one of the Bradley armored personnel carriers on the pontoon bridge when the latter came under heavy fire from an eight-gun battery of Soviet self-propelled 122-millimeter howitzers. The Russian gunners, unable to retreat because they were out of fuel, had the pontoon bridge bracketed and were bringing down a deadly rain of 21.7-kilogram HE shells, taking out three of the Bradleys, killing all thirty-six men aboard in the first two salvos. Just when Norton was convinced the APC in which he was riding was the next to be hit, the Russian fire became erratic and for the next three minutes stopped altogether, permitting Norton and the rest of the U.S. Second Armored column following to cross the canal in safety.
When the Americans overran the Russian battery site, fourteen miles farther on near Braunschweig, the Russians were gone, but the self-propelled guns and piles of discarded and unused ammunition remained. Major Norton’s bent for detail did not fail him, and he noted in his written report on the incident that the hitherto unexplained erratic fire of the 122-millimeters was due not to any fault with the lay of the chassis-mounted guns but appeared to be caused by deficiencies in the 122-millemeter HE rounds themselves, whose markings showed they had been manufactured somewhere in the Baltic republics. The letters “MJ” had been stamped on several of the duds’ cartridge seals, but as yet Norton could not explain the specific designation “MJ.”